


Blues Like Me

by stolen_wings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, dark!Sherlock, oh man captive!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:51:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stolen_wings/pseuds/stolen_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you hide something you want, what was hidden will eventually become yours. Sherlock wanted John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blues Like Me

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's fair to put the author's note in the beginning because I'm not sure of the depth of darkness in this. John is our casual army doctor, always loyal and faithful to the dectetive while Sherlock... Well, he's just Sherlock. He's quite dark in this, but the idea behind his darkness can be naive and related to the lack of moral we can detect in Sherlock, and because of that I think this might be triggery. Oh, english is not my native language, and I don't have a beta.

 

 

If you hide something you want, what was hidden will eventually become yours.

 

 

 

That was what Sherlock always believed, even when Mycroft or mummy would say that it didn’t work like that, that he just couldn’t go picking out stuff from everyone and bury them in the backyard until someone found it and gave it back to the original owner. If he closes his eyes for a moment, when there’s no case or nothing else to make his mind wander off, he can still remember the look in Mycroft’s face; blue eyes flashing with reprisal and disdain as their mother scowled at him for being such a… unique child.

 

When he opens his eyes, 20 years later, he can feel a tear drop in the corner of his eye.

 

~

 

After so many times of mummy and Mycroft telling him that things didn’t work the way he thought it did, he invented his own job because he simply didn’t _like_ the way life worked. People were always trapped in the same tedious, _dull_ routine of waking up, going to work and coming back to an unhappy home and family. He didn’t have a firm grasp of the normal, but certainly a life like that didn’t sound the least appealing. One day he was refusing a job at the MI-6 Mycroft offered to him because it was so much bureaucracy and so many laws to respect and it was dull and boring, in the other day he was calling himself a consulting detective and solving the most impossible crimes the police came across, just because he didn’t like the way a _normal_ life worked.

 

~

 

Being a consulting detective, the only one in the world, had its privileges. After two months he already had access to Bart’s laboratory, every morgue in London, 5 badges accidentally stolen from a distracted detective inspector and four pairs of handcuffs. He barely used the handcuffs, since he didn’t like to do the ‘dirty job’ of putting his hands on suspects, but the laboratory and the morgue at Bart’s were his favorite places to spend time, either investigating or just discovering new chemical compositions that could kill you in the blink of an eye. The lab was very useful for his purposes, and the personnel of the place learned very quickly to avoid those two places whenever Sherlock was in it, except for Molly.

 

The lovely pathologist always loved to see the detective whip corpses for hours on end, she would even bring him coffee a couple of times. Molly would just take a sit next to him, but not too close because he didn’t like being too close of people while working, and would watch him being brilliant for how long it took for him to find his answer. Mike was another acquaintance acquired through his job. Mike was a soldier dispensed from the army just a couple of months before Sherlock started frequenting Bart’s installations, actually, Mike was an army doctor, an unnecessary army doctor for an unnecessary war in Sherlock’s mind.

 

Mike, the army doctor that brought light to the darkness that was Sherlock’s life before the day, the day he met John Watson.

 

~

 

It’s not every people that catch Sherlock Holmes’ attention.

 

But John Watson did.

 

It was just an ordinary day, being the detective, playing mad scientist and catching killers everywhere in London. He had just came from a chase of a first-time murderer, a bit disappointed because that one was quite an easy one, to prove that the guy they caught was the one they were looking for was just a matter of science, and minutes. Sherlock was finish testing up the blood samples collected from the suspect when Mike came in with an intriguing blonde man walking behind him. Bugger, he needed to text Lestrade about confirming the murderer, but the thought vanished from his mind when he first laid his eyes upon the figure walking behind Mike. Blonde, short, army-styled hair, tanned, psychosomatic limp, square shoulders and soldier pride in the voice. A closer look would be marvellous.

 

And it was.

 

At first, asking for the phone was with the purpose of letting Lestrade know he could begin the paperwork, but in the end, it was the excuse to know his most desired thing, an army doctor to call his own.

 

~

 

Later that day, in his empty but yet filled flat, he laid on the sofa with hands clasped together to think what had happened in the morning.

 

He remembered a tickling sensation in his stomach, just like he felt when he was a ten years-old and found something he wanted to be his. Thinking about it now, hiding the cat in a box behind of one of the threes in the backyard was stupid and utterly purposeless if he really wanted the cat to be his. He could have just asked to mummy if he could have a cat, even knowing her answer would be no because Mycroft is allergic to cats. There was always something in the way to get what he wanted. When he wanted the moon, it was too big to hide in his closet and too bright to keep it under his bed. When he wanted that damned cat, Mycroft was allergic, and when the cat had escaped from the box and hid himself in Mycroft’s room and almost got him killed because of the allergy; mummy almost yelled at him. It wasn’t just the cat or the moon. It was the microscope, the shiny ball of the boy next door, Mycroft’s first camera, mummy’s paint brusher, the violin, among other lots of things. After a few years, there wasn’t any more space to hide things.

 

After couple of hours contemplating, Sherlock had made a decision.

 

He wanted John Watson.

 

~

 

If Sherlock had something good inside of him, it was his self-control.

 

The first few weeks of their life as flatmates were comforting and quite fun. John proved himself trust-worthy by the second day they met, when the army doctor killed a serial killer just to save the detective. John also proved himself to be willingly to a bullet for Sherlock, no matter what time of the day or what the situation. Always in need for action, John loved to be Sherlock’s assistant, making them work in a balance. Whenever Sherlock was being rougher than the usual, there was John to bring him back to the ground and keep everyone else safe and sound from a mad genius, his mad genius. The days blurred into weeks and weeks blurred into months and Sherlock caught himself wanting John Watson to be his, and his only, every bloody millisecond of his life. Usually, he would lock away this stupid and insane and bizarre wish deep down inside of himself, keep the thought at bay so he wouldn’t lose control, but the third time they almost got killed, something inside of Sherlock snapped.

 

The child he once was took control and everything in his mind screamed “I want John Watson and I want him _now_ ”.

 

~

 

John got himself a job at a surgery near their flat and worked from eight a.m. to six p.m. He seemed to really like the place, and the sense of normality Sherlock could never give to him, because being honest, Sherlock gave the sense of macabre, action and danger to John’s life. When he came back from the job interview, Sherlock noticed he didn’t have John’s full attention, and that was something he couldn’t tolerate.

 

He was going to hide John Watson, and he would finally be his soon.

 

~

 

Sherlock knew he wasn’t anywhere near normal.

 

He confirmed it when he sedated John when he came back home from his first date with “Sarah from surgery”.

 

Sherlock was slumped in the sofa, apparently drifting off in his own mind when John opened the door as silently as he could so he wouldn’t disturb Sherlock and tip-toed his way to the kitchen. He stared at the living room and at Sherlock penetrated in his whatever-he-was-doing and for a moment wondered if he was actually sane for staying so long with this borderline psychopath. Oh no, scratch that, he was a ‘high functioning sociopath’, his high functioning sociopath. John was brought out to the surface when a deep baritone voice echoed in the flat.

 

“I made you soup.”

 

“Sherlock—“

 

“I didn’t know if you were going to eat, so I decided to prepare you something in case you came back starving.”

 

“I— thank you Sherlock.”

 

Emotional blackmail always worked with the good soldier. John had had a full dinner with Sarah, but since Sherlock said he had done the soup himself, he just couldn’t hurt his feelings and say no to what seemed to be a really well cooked meal, considering the basis of comparison for Sherlock. In less than five minutes, John was sitting at the table eating the soup Sherlock so fondly made for him.

 

He didn’t notice the sedative.

 

Once he was done, he put the plate in the sink and sat across Sherlock.

 

“Thank you for the soup, really. It was really nice. Where did you learn to cook?”

 

“It’s just basic chemistry, no problem.”

 

“So, what are you up to?”

 

 _I’m going to hide you from the world as soon the sedative kicks in_

“Nothing, I was just mentally solving a few puzzles.”

 

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m tired and sleepy, so I’m going to sleep. Are you planning on sleeping tonight?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Well, if you stay up please turn off the lights yeah?”

 

“Sure. Good night John.”

 

“Good night Sherlock.”

 

So it begins.

 

~

 

Sherlock is quietly fingering the strings of his violin as he waits John to fall asleep. He’s becoming impatient and that might be a big mistake if he doesn’t calm down. He ignored the thought of his John kissing Sarah from the surgery, ignored the image of him holding hands with her and talking about stupid stuff neither of them cared. He ignored John taking her home and kissing her goodnight. When he caught himself he already had broken two strings.

 

John must be asleep by now, time to get stuff done.

 

~

 

John is smaller and skinner than Sherlock thought. His skeleton seemed like a fragile doll over his shoulder while moving him from his own bedroom to Sherlock’s. He is much careful as he could be, given the situation.

 

~

 

It’s morning already by the time John wakes up to a beautiful melody ringing in his ears. Must be Sherlock playing, he thinks, but the sound seems to be closer to him than as if Sherlock was playing in the living room.

 

It doesn’t take too long for John to realise this is not his bedroom. John thinks it’s better if he pretends he’s still sleeping, even if Sherlock knows he’s faking.

 

Sherlock finally leaves the room.

 

~

 

He feels a tight knot in his stomach as his situation is finally crystal clear for his eyes, always used to the blurry sand of the desert. Sherlock carried him in his sleep to his bedroom, restrained his feet and woke him up with a violin song as if to let him know what was done to him. Think about the good side John, at least you have a warm sheet and your clothes, he thought.

 

 _I’m being held a prisoner of the world’s greatest mind and I have no idea why. Could this be worst?_

 

His left hand wasn’t shaking the slightest bit.

 

~

 

In the kitchen, Sherlock was preparing scrambled eggs, toasts and tea, John’s favourite breakfast.

 

John loved when Sherlock played the violin, not the distorted accords of when Mycroft paid them a visit and asked for a favour. Perhaps waking him up with the violin would smooth the reality.

 

John would never have touch with the reality outside of their four walls, ever again.

 

~

 

When Sherlock is back with breakfast, John is with his back to the door.

 

“You’ve got questions,”

 

He set the tray aside, standing out of bed right behind John. Sherlock always dominated words, in six different languages, but in the only moment he would need to actually use them correctly, he found himself at a loss. The scared child after mummy had found the cat was right beside Sherlock.

 

“Will you ever release me?”

 

“No.”

 

Sherlock puts the tray with breakfast in the bed and leaves, filling the room with deafening silence.

 

~

 

After a week John went missing. Sarah called _sixty-four_ times to John’s mobile and Mrs. Hudson thinks John is gone for the month to Harriet’s place.

 

After a week, John hasn’t traded a single word with Sherlock. The detective comes with meals every three hours, sometimes even daring to lay behind John and put his arm around John’s waist, subconsciously making of it a possessive gesture. John doesn’t flinch, or shake, in fact, he doesn’t do anything at all, he just lies there letting Sherlock be. John is smart enough to refuse the food Sherlock brings to him, but he is also smart enough to not dare to talk with the detective. He wants to know why, but at the same time he doesn’t, part of him is scared of knowing what led Sherlock to do this, to cage his best friend and flatmate, but he won’t ask, no matter what happens. He will just keep eating, keep sleeping and keep his mind entertained reminding books he already read, singing lyrics in his head and daydreaming about infinite possibilities of the day they first met.

 

~

 

Sometimes, Sherlock would walk into the bedroom, pick up a book, settle himself in the bed with John and read out loud a few paragraphs for him. John just lay there, listening to that deep baritone voice say words he didn’t care about, and his brain would melt and he would find tears in the corner of his eyes. Sherlock would just ignore them and keep reading.

 

One time, things got a different course.

 

Instead of just waiting for John to fall asleep, Sherlock went quiet in all of sudden, making John sit up and stare at the figure in front of his eyes. Before he caught himself, the detective moved towards him, trapping the half-naked body beneath his clothed one. John let out a startled gasp when his mouth was covered with hungry lips. Sherlock shook above John, capturing both of his wrists to pin them down, tongue now exploring neck and ears. By now, John was quietly moaning while his body was assaulted by the most brilliant mind in the country. John felt the hunger, the danger and the thrill, feeling shivers all over his skin.

 

He didn’t want it to stop.

 

~

 

Sherlock was staring at dead onion cells in the kitchen when the door rang.

 

Sherlock didn’t think twice when he caught his mobile and texted “John is alright. Leave us alone. - SH”

 

~

 

Sherlock lost control again two days after their first incident.

 

Their communication was wordless, using only little gests such as stares, moves and sounds, but not a single word. It was bath time. Like the methodical person he was, Sherlock stood up from the empty living room and ran upstairs to begin preparing John’s bath. He filled up the bath tub with warm water, pushed away the curtains and smiled at his handiwork. He then put the towels somewhere near with the soap and razorblades for shaving, and went back to the kitchen to pick up a chair. Obviously, he wasn’t fool enough to leave his John alone with sharp objects. It was about time to change John’s clothes, he could be mad for restraining him that way but he wasn’t cruel to the point of leaving him to get filthy and dirty, so he quietly tip-toed his way to John’s room and picked up pyjama trousers, a cotton t-shirt and clean pants, folded them neatly and put them beside the towels.

 

Now everything that was missing was John.

 

He couldn’t find enough words to describe how he hated the process of getting showered. Sherlock made him strip the shirt in the room, taking advantage to touch and scan the scar on his wounded shoulder. His precise fingers would touch the scarred tissue in a way that John felt like if he was one of the dead bodies Sherlock could spend hours on end examining and deducing facts about them. It made John feel exposed, violated, because John wasn’t proud of the scar he carried. In fact, he was ashamed of the ugly deformed skin, and of the memories it brought back to the surface. It was like he was in the field again, seeing his mates’ head blow away with a bullet came out of nowhere, hearing the screams calling for him to try to patch up missing legs, arms, heads. It was like war was happening to him all over again.

 

“Stop.”

 

“Say that again.”

 

“Stop touching me.”

 

“John—“

 

“If you’re here to get me to take a shower then just do it, but don’t touch my scar anymore.”

 

Well, this was interesting. Sherlock withdraws his fingers from the man’s shoulder, and makes sure his gaze cut through John’s soul. He knew what Sherlock meant. In less than two minutes, John was unchained and carried in Sherlock’s arms to the bathroom, being gently sat on the toilet. Without uncalled words, John weakly began to strip, trousers and pants. When John was about to drop the last piece of clothing, Sherlock caught John’s wrist, squeezing gently just to reassure his dominance after the scar issue. The detective guided John into the tub and stepped away when the soldier let himself sink into the water. John merely hissed at the contact of the warm water against his skin, the feeling of nakedness and violation still making his stomach lurch. So John just sat in there and rubbed himself as Sherlock watched carefully every single movement with hawk eyes.

 

When John was reaching for his pants, Sherlock went from quiet to obnoxiously loud.

 

“No, you may not put your clothes on.”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me perfectly, no clothes. Wrap yourself in the towel, I’m taking you back to my bedroom.”

 

“Why? What did I do? Sherlock this has gone too far—“

 

John tried to reach for his pants again, when a strong hand caught his and threw the clothes into the tub. John caught Sherlock’s gaze and suddenly went motionless, just waiting for the next movement. His legs felt too weak to support his own body and Sherlock seemed to notice that, so without a warning, the detective yanked the soldier with him and stormed out of the bathroom, climbing up the stairs at two steps at time. When John didn’t walk along with him, Sherlock simply yanked him harder, almost dragging him across the floor. When they finally reached the bedroom, Sherlock pulled John closer to him and shut the door closed. Dragging him across the room, Sherlock laid John in the bed and quickly chained his ‘’good’’ leg to the bed again, taking the towel away from John’s reach. There was the feeling of nakedness again.

 

John, as the soldier he was, tried to hide himself with the sheets, having little success in doing so when the detective was pinning him down with his own body, not daring to nothing but feel the breath of John Watson coming out in short, shallow gasps. Eventually, the detective buried his head in the gap of John’s neck, breathing deeply and slowly above the soldier. None of them dared to say a word, their breaths speaking louder than any other scream, deafer than the silence.

 

“Say that I can kiss you.”

 

After a couple of long minutes, Sherlock abruptly leaves John, storming out of the bedroom and slamming the door shut. John feels the cold in his stomach of where Sherlock was lying in him.

 

~

 

When he storms in again, John wakes up startled from a nap.

 

Sherlock doesn’t give enough time for John to process what’s happening. All he can feel is hands pushing him down to the mattress, pushing away the sheets, revealing his nakedness and bringing to the surface the feeling of violation again. John feels exposed in front of the clothed form above him, he feels the cold in his stomach but Sherlock is warm, hungry and needy and damn if it’s not his hand creeping down in his belly to rest in his—

 

“Get off me, please. Don’t—“

 

Sherlock stares at John and before he has the chance to reply, there are lips in his lips and everything begins to blur in front of his eyes when Sherlock pushes one finger into that place no one ever touched him before and _aah—_ It feels like fire, rage, hunger and sadness, like a desperate attempt of having what seemed impossible to. Sherlock is messy, warm and hot and needy and so human that John refuses to believe that this man above him it’s the same that once said he considered himself married to his work. They move together like waves, coordinated not in purpose but by nature, just designed to be, their breaths colliding and gaps filling the hot, weary air when he hits that special spot and fuck if John has never felt this way before, because if he felt this submissive in a normal situation he could kill himself. But Sherlock would never allow, Sherlock would say to accept it, to embrace, and this is what we are John, this is what you are, and you are mine _aah—_

 

They reach climax together and Sherlock suddenly goes quiet, burying himself deep down inside of John, head in the gap that perfectly receives a tired mind stuck in a tired skull. He’s quietly moaning, coaxing himself until his muscles can no longer move. So they just lie together, Sherlock deep inside of John and John… John is still trying to understand what’s happening.

 

~

 

When Sherlock finally pulls out he can hear a quiet gasp at the sudden empty feeling. John is automatically turning to the side, as if trying to get himself together. Sherlock sits at the foot of the bed, before quietly leaving the room. Explanations can wait.

 

~

 

One day Sherlock walked into the bedroom and he saw the despair, the anger and the hate in John’s eye. He thinks the weird feeling in his stomach is just lack of food.

 

~

 

One day, Sherlock gets slapped in the face by an angry John when he tries to feed him, and that’s enough to throw the food all across the floor. Sherlock just stares at John’s eyes. His hands are shaking when he grabs the key and returns to the bedroom, yanking the chain free off John’s ankle. The detective leaves without a word, and without looking back.

 

He couldn’t have John.

 


End file.
